Why is the sunset on the water
one after another
disappearing into the twilight?
The lights of the earth
One by one, why
have they gone into the night?
The stars in the sky
One after another, why
have they all gone into the dawn?
How is it that our lives,
day by day,
have been reduced to eternity?
And when I go away, what kind of sky is it that takes me away?
And when I go away, what kind of sky is it that takes me away?
And when I go away, what kind of sky is it that takes me away?
Is it twilight? Is it dusk?
Is it the night color?
Is it the dawn color?
Firebath
An unquenchable yearning for different elements
For different spaces, for heat or cold
Not knowing whether to rise or fall
Rising like a phoenix, rising in the midst of the fire
Or floating in fluid transparency, a swan's cloak
A pure white image reflecting the self
Long necks and rich bodies, all made of fire, all made of white, all made of white. A long neck and a rich body, all made of curved lines
There is a desire that needs to be washed and burned
The process of purification, both
That which precipitates needs to be precipitated, and that which flutters floats
To the water, a fowl, to the fire, a firebird and a waterfowl
Then shall I choose, which process to choose
There is a swan in the West, swimming on the ice sea
That is the cold zone, a superhero, that is the cold zone.
That's the cold zone, a superhuman climate
Where the ice freezes and the loneliness freezes
Silence is the stillness of time, and the reflection is complete
Once, every wild goose was a swan
The water shimmered, like a dream or a reality
In the East
On the hot East, there's a phoenix
On the fire that comes from fire, comes back to the fire
Step by step, one by one. The fire dances the flames
Burns the crows, burns the phoenix
One feather of the sun rises in the quivering eternity
Cleaner than the clear, the fire is the warrior's journey
Glorious reincarnation is the soul from element to element
White peacocks, swans, cranes, white coats and white fans
Time stands still, in the midst of which dwells the wise man, the recluse
Forever flowing, evermore. The flames of fire
Wash away the sins of the warrior, the blood of the warrior
And what shall you choose for your soul
Cold in the cold, or hot in the heat
Choose the sea of ice, or choose the sun
There are clean souls, and there are always unclean souls
Or baths of ice, or baths of fire, both are completion
Both are adorable completions, and baths of fire
Baths of fire
And baths of fire
Baths of fire
Baths of fire, and baths of fire.
The bath of fire is more adorable, the bath of fire is more difficult.
Fire is more transparent than water, deeper than fire.
Fire, the gate of eternal life, arched with death.
Arched with death, an arched challenge.
Saying that he who has not embraced death can not be born.
It is the crows, the phoenixes, that decide, in a single moment,
a single moment, to swallow the will of the fire. To accept that kind of punishment
To shout frankly to the thousand tongues of the Crossing
I am not guilty! I am not guilty! I am not guilty! Branded on my back
Branded on my face, I am still me, still
Sober me, soul, what's wrong with being awake
Spreading my burning arms, I can smell it from afar
The hurricane of time whistles my wings
The hairs weep, the bones groan, and with my own blood
To torment myself, to fly, phoenix, your newborn
It is said, "My song is an undying longing, a yearning. My song is an unquenchable yearning
My blood boils and stops to bathe my soul in fire
Listen to the song of fire in blue ink
Lift it up, clearer and higher after death
Stone Age
Whenever I stand at the window in a daze
At a spread hand
I can't reach the stone that's destined to be there
---- Carve my name in mysterious seal script
to prove that I am who I am
The stone of destiny
It's so strange
It's as if we're still in the stone age
An awkward four-sided weapon
I have to carry it in my bag every day when I leave the house
Signing it by hand and in person isn't enough
It's not enough to wait until I've signed it by hand.
The woman in the window won't give up until the stone nods
A stone to recognize ghosts when you die
A stone to recognize people when you are alive
Why can't you break the stone's spell after thousands of years
Question for you, stone in the pouch
When are you going to let go? Spring
That's all it is in the end
Some wounded memories
Some desires and dust
Or maybe so-called spring is just a crisp specimen
A bookmark that was once a daffodil or a butterfly
Burial of the stars
Pale blue night spills into the window Summer pours too full
Author: 220.249.37.* 2005-12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement
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2 Yu Guangzhong Poems
The fireflies' little palace lights dream
of the Tang Palace, of the chasing light-robed fan
of another summer night, of a star's funeral
of a flash of light reaching out and wiping out
and your exclamation of surprise, my recollection, and a moment of countenance
Wind chimes
My heart is the wind chime suspended from the eaves of the seven-tiered pagoda. The chimes
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle
They rise and fall, knocking at one's name
---- Do you feel a tremor in your tower too?
It's the pulse of silence, day and night
Do you hear it, ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling?
This annoying tone is forbidden
Unless all the winds are diverted
The bells are plucked, the towers brought down
Because my heart is a wind chime high and low
Tinkling, tinkling, tinkling, tinkling
They come and go
They ring out a name
Figurines of the Qin Dynasty
---- Terracotta warriors unearthed in Lintong
Armor undone, hands still clutching
Bows and arrows or spears I can't see
If gongs and drums were suddenly struck
Would you turn around, immediately
Run toward the sands of 2,000 years ago
To join the rows and columns of your fellow warriors?
If you suddenly opened your eyes and your might flashed
Mustache cocked with primness and untamedness
How should the astonished spectators walk away?
Fortunately, your eyes are still closed, as if you
have been accustomed to the darkness of the netherworld for years
How can you be exposed at once?
If you were to open your mouth suddenly, who would be able to hear the thick Qin accent
and the ancient tones?
Separated from the riverbank of time
I don't know there is Han, moreover, regardless of the later
You say your Xianyang, and I say my Xi'an
Incident, who can say the game of chess in Chang'an?
And no matter how strong your arrows are
No longer can they reach the Peach Blossom Garden
Asked if this is the right world, I can't hide it from you
The empire of the First Emperor, where cars traveled on the same tracks and books were written in the same language
The mighty black flag fluttered from the Great Wall to the Crossing Points
Only passed down to the Second Emperor, and then you were left behind, the warrior
Leaving behind the pits and valleys full of figurines
With all the warriors, you are now the only one who has ever lived.
The discipline of the six thousand soldiers and riders
were said to have no clothes
and the son of the same robe
Wang Yu Xing Shi
repairing my spears and spears
generous song, followed the ancestral dragon
all into the ground, but did not expect to be only three?
It's no longer a world of Ying
No longer a world of Ying, but a world of Qin
We have been called by the foreigners
How many times has the Yellow River been cleared?
How many times has Harley turned back?
After two thousand years of darkness and confinement
Appointedly, you are unearthed everywhere
Reorganize your ranks in museums
Lifelike eyebrows and solemn, clamor-free looks
Testify to a missing empire
And the boisterous spectators, we
We are all going to the ground in a twinkling of an eye
Will have to wait until the year, the month, and the day, when we can see what happened. We are of flesh and blood
And in the twinkling of an eye we will perish, like the nobles you buried
Leaving behind only you, the immortal ones, the six thousand soldiers
The Tongguan Pass has fallen, and, alas, Xianyang will not be defended
Who will save the fire of the A-fang Palace?
You will never be able to return, you will be
Hostages of the next generation, prisoners forever
And there are more than twelve golden figures to keep quiet?
Who says there is no descendant? You are the most honored descendants, who did not go into the past with Emperor Shi Huangdi
but with Xu Fu's 6,000 men and women
who were sent to the future to explore the idea of everlasting life
The veil of the tent
The midsummer night of my childhood
When I was a child I had my childish dreams all sewn up with white veil
The dome of the tent slanted down softly
When I was a child I was a child I was a child of the emperor, but when I was a child I was a child. It slopes down gently
The tiny holes of nebulae
are a little hypnotic to look up at
And the net of dreams is always too dense to allow a bloodthirsty assassin to fly in
---- nightwalkers in black shirts and with short swords
Can only whine from the outside
But horrifyingly it allows in the moonlight and the shadows of the trees
. In the timid chirping of insects
A Zen-like mosquito scent
Beckons one to dream, to meander towards the realm of illusion ----
On opening one's eyes
A crimson sunset is halfway to the bed
Send it to the painters
They told me that this summer
You may have plans to travel
To see Van Gogh or Xu Beihong
With an easel, I will be able to paint my paintings.
With an easel and gray hair
and a big smile in Sichuan dialect
Taipei will be empty once you leave, my friend
Not seeing you on the streets or in the alleys
It's the rainy season again
Black umbrellas all over the sky, yellow mud all over the ground
Why can't you wait until the Mid-Autumn Festival?
Only the southern rice fields you can't take away
The temples, the buffaloes
And at dusk in summer
there's always an egret, two egrets
that fly up as if they remembered something from your ink paintings
The third season
The third season, the third season of the xiao and the harp
The third season of the bhikkhu, the third season of the xiao and the harp
The third season of the bhikkhu, the third season of the bhikkhu.
The bhikkhuni loved to count her rosary beads under the grapevine
A purple murmur knocks at my window
The sun, the sun is a late announcer
Can't throw in the golden news
I can't throw my sorrows
Out of the wall like the remains of a six-legged insect
When the wind, like the wind, is like the wind, the wind is like the wind, and the wind is like the wind.
When the wind is like a greedy wild boy
Sweeping away the long hair, looking for someone's round neck
I want to board the long-distance blue stagecoach
To the south, to the south that is not yet over
Waiting for you, in the rain
Waiting for you, in the rain, the rainbow rain
The cicadas are sinking, and the frogs are rising
The pools of red lotus are like red flames, in the rain
When I am in a pool of red lotus, in a pool of red flames, in the rain
When I am in a pool of red lotus, in a pool of red flames ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
3 Yu Guangzhong Poems
Waiting for you, in the time of ? Within time, waiting for you, in a flash, in eternity
If your hand were in mine, at this moment
If your fragrance
was in my nostrils, I'd say, "Little Lover
No, this hand should pick lotus, in the Wu Palace
This hand should
Swing a cinnamon syrup, in the Mulan Boat
One star hangs On the eaves of the Science Museum
Hanging like an earring
The Swiss watch says it's seven o'clock Suddenly you come
Step by step, the red lotus, fluttering after the rain, you come
Like a little song
From a love story you come
From the words of Jiang Baishi, rhymingly you come
The Temple of the Enlightened One
This mirror is so big, look at it.
This mirror is so big, look at me standing in it
There is no reflection of Narcissus
Thinking that the flowers are no longer clinging to me, that the light is flowing freely
Bhikkhuni, if the bells of the bronze bells are clasped
Listen to the moss that slides down the moss in some eras
Self-consistently rounded skulls
And on top of the tower are the clouds of India, and on top of the tower is the mother
Take the ancient ashtray and see the umbilical cord of mine
Connecting everything that was ever there
call me back to the rest of my life
The man who gave me the fan
--- Ask me if I'm not happy to be here.
No, I think of Shu, but I am not happy
Eighteen bamboo bones were twisted into a plain fan
The thin Shu man used a rounded script
to record a song for me called "Linjiang Xian," which was filled in by a man of gold
Turned around and entrusted to an overseas friend to give it to him
Said that he would give it to me for me to "brush away the summer heat," and look at the inscription
Dated at the beginning of the Autumn Festival in the year of Yin.
The almanac says the White Dew has begun to fall
Waving my fan, I asked where the wind was blowing from.
From the head of Xiziwan, or Dongpo's hometown?
Looking out over the strait, where is the Middle Kingdom a hair?
When really, dew, from this night white?
And the moon, is it really more clear where it came from?
Originally, I am not from Shu, but in the era of the war
When the sun flag darkened the sun of the Central Plains
The Yi burning bomb flickered and blew up Chongqing
The Chuan Waer but I have done eight? I dug groundnuts, caught frogs and fireflies
After a sudden rain, I couldn't finish picking out the ground
The white fruits of the ginkgo biloba were like gentle tung-oil lights
Roasted with fragrant, ripe beeps and flakes
Summer nights under the yellow kudzu tree, a small bushel fan
Gently shook the sky full of stars
The Jialing River in the basin of my youth is still
The echo of the river is still there
The river is still running day and night
The river is still running day and night, the river is still running day and night. The Jialing River is still running day and night, and the echo is faint
like the four voices of the steady Sichuan dialect
forty years later, it is still flowing through my teeth and lips
forty years later, every time I listen to the rain
pouring down on the Shoushan Mountain behind my house
that piece of sound is still like the Bashan Mountain
You asked for the return date, how many times has Bugu urged me to do so
the strait and loneliness has not yet been returned to me
the river has not yet returned to me.
Nine hundred years ago, across another strait
Another poet looked on with gray hair
Thinking of the day when the Su family's wandering son left the Sichuan River
Riding on the muddy river to the east
Rolling waves never look back
And I entered the river at the age of ten, and I left the river at the age of eighteen
The same heave sends me across the Ba Gorge and the Wu Gorge
The same heave sends me across the Ba Gorge and the Wu Gorge
We are the only ones who have been in the river for a while. Wushu Gorge
The same never-returning, never-returning again
Is there a shore, and what kind of shore is it?
Waving the bamboo fan you inscribed in your hand
With the Tropic of Cancer further south, the summer heat has not yet broken
Saying what ice skin and jade bones are, since it is cool and sweat-free
To the Taiwan Sea where the container ships are far away
To y remember a mountainous country without coast
Chongqing after the enemy planes bombed
Chengdu after the Cultural Revolution
The young man who was gifted when I was a child
When I was a young man, I was a young man, I was a young man.
Jiange and Wufeng locked
Today's Shu Road ah travel how difficult?
The myth of Dinghu
Rusty is the steel axe of Pangu Gonggong
Splitting out the Kunlun Mountains of that handle
Decayed is the old chief Xuanyuan's crow horn
Shot through the Chi You of that one
The Zhuo Deer, Zhuo Deer in the oracle bones
The snowman in the world's roof to pick up the
Peng's remains of the feather When the Yellow River diversion
The Qianhe River
When the Yellow River diversion
When the Yellow River diversion
The Qianhe River
The Qianhe River, the Qianhe River
The dry riverbed bears the unicorn's footprints
After five hundred years have passed there are still five hundred? Not a single phoenix can fly in a jet cloud
The dragon proved to be a cloud-watching reptile
Cousins, it is said that we are a tribe that shoots at the sun
There are chiefs with heavy pupils, chiefs with colorful eyebrows
Chiefs with a horse's beak, chiefs with an ovum
Don't believe it, ask Peng Zu
Peng Zu couldn't read Cangjie's manuscript
To ask Lao Zi, Lao Zi was in the middle of the river, I was in the middle of the river. Ask Lao Tzu, who blinks in the Tao Te Ching
Ask Qizi, who hides in a bomb shelter
Refuses to give interviews to journalists
Should've donated Ancient China to the British Museum
Cousins, go to the crashed Buzhou Mountain
Sit on the fossils and cry at nightfall
Turn the multicolored stones into a meteor shower
And cry all night long
And cry all night long
And cry all night long
And cry all night long
All you can, you know, you know.
And cry a night, cousins
Crying Pangu's eyes into a lunar eclipse
And resting his head on the Sutra of the Mountain and the Sea
And resting his head on the bosom of Mother Rayon
And renewing a five thousand year old dream of the Yellow Ridge under the star Sirius
Dreaming of the ashes of heroes rekindled under the ground
The ground stepped over the ranks of slaves
The ground was a dream of the heroes who had been killed in the war.
Dreams and Geography
Shaped like a sea-horse on its side? Behind that one monstrous rock at the head of the headland
If I keep walking forward
Is it the staggering Pescadores?
And over again, blocking behind that small rocky islet
Should it be Xiamen, or Shantou?
---- are but the distance to Taipei
If, this quadrilateral red building of the Faculty of Arts
The row of windows facing the sea is southwest by west
Author: 220.249.37.* 2005-12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement
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4 Yu Guangzhong's Poems
The cargo ship with its porthole shadows misty
Is it facing directly, or diagonally toward Hong Kong?
And that magnificent sunlight
Will Vietnam, which has long been ash, burn again?
The quizzical looking glass goes back and forth
---- binoculars, seven and a half times
It was borrowed from a colleague
for tonight's hunt for Halley's Comet
Earth is full of obstacles, but space is not
To these questions of dreams and geography
The mirror shows the end of the thousands of waves
A horizontal line is there, but it is not there
Another one. The horizontal line, if there is one
is the answer to all the questions of the sea
Traveling the highway with Li Bai
You should have had less to drink in the store just now
Imported whisky is no better than liquor
It's too strong, and it's Wang Lun's fault
What's the point of having to call a hoochie
They're pouring into the glass over and over again
You should have listened to the doctor's advice. You should listen to your doctor, not Wang Lun
Cirrhosis of the liver, yesterday the newspaper said
has been upgraded to the seventh killer?
Just killed a martial arts celebrity
You keep saying that you want to seek immortality, seek chivalry
Is Kunlun too far away, close to your wine ? Going in search of the Dirt Man and the Muddled Immortal ?
---- ah ah be careful, so close
Over this kind of container truck is not a child's play
Slow down, slow down, I beg you
The statistics of traffic accidents in the past few years
No less than the casualties of the Anshi Rebellion
This running the world ah is not a heavenly horse
Running the highway is not a hollow
This running the highway is not the same as running the world.
The speed limit, my immortal, is 90 kilometers
How did you get to a hundred and forty?
Stop being a poet, you might as well
Go watch a Spielberg movie
---- Hey, listen, it's like an ominous siren
It's catching up with you, just pull over
Switch seats with me, quick, don't let
Traffic police catch you driving drunk-eyed
Alcohol is running through a large part of your veins
The poet is a poet, he's a poet, he's a poet, he's a poet.
The poet's image is bad enough
Critics and cops are equally unforgiving
It's a dubious "unemployed" on your ID card
Stop talking about banishment
Not to mention the fact that your driver's license was impounded last week by a store for a liquor debt
Goldwynch and the legislators are offended
He Zhizhang is not here.
He Zhizhang is not here, see who will protect you?
---- six thousand dollars?
When the lawsuits of "Hard to Walk" and "Hard to Road"
are won, the royalties will be paid
and then I will be paid back:
It's really unfair
Publishing law is like the traffic rules
It's enforced every day so seriously?
If Wang Wei hadn't gone to an early morning symposium on
Rim River pollution
we would have
hitched a ride back to Pingtung in his old car
Playing Li Bai
You used to be the Yellow River's water from the sky
Yin Mountain moves
Dragon Gate opens
But now it is the other way around, coming from your lines
The waves and the laughter
Miles of waves into the sea
The great waterfalls that stirred up Kuanglu
Creating something out of nothing
Not stopping
The Yellow River is coming from the west, and the great river is going to the east
And the other 5,000 years have all gone by in silence
There's the Yellow River, and you've got enough to do
The great river, let's let that countryman in the Su family do it
The world is divided into two parts.
The world is divided into two parts
And they all belong to the Shu people
You're at the Dragon Gate
He's at the Red Cliff
Hail Halley
Hail Halley,
Hallelujah Halley.
A faraway traveler from the starry skies, a prodigal son from the space
Once I turn back to the world it's been seven years since the last time I saw you. Sixteen years later
What is the view from half the blue dome
Whether the light years are a long pavilion or a short one
Silver hair flying, white cloak floating
Trailing with the loneliness of a lone warrior for the rest of his life
Committing crimes against the concubine, rushing to Zi Wei, crossing the tantalizing heavenly river
The erratic movements of an ancient book
Confused with the order of the starry hosts
And the emperor and the children were shocked by this. The wars, the revolutions, the plagues and the deaths
Chinese officials don't know how to explain it
Not even the rhymes of the marketplace, nor the slang of the jungle
Waiting for Harley, your forgotten confidante
With the thinness of a parabolic line
Towards the spectrum of the starry race in the depths of the flooded land
To trace the mystery of your wandering birth. As a riddle
Since then you have a common name
Turning back to find your earthly soulmate
Wielding such a signal
To bear witness to him, but sixteen years too late? Prophets, alas, are the early ones who walk alone
Can't wait to meet their prophecies
Like a boomerang you've come slanting in
Against the course of all the planets
All the telescopes are aiming
All the theaters are waiting with excitement
The protagonist has come onstage from the darkest part of the night
The greatest guest of the year from beyond.
Look in the mirror at your touching profile
Dashing long hair combed and brushed
Facing a hurricane from a great ball of fire
Sun Plaza's tandem
Wrapping around an empty U shape
You're making a big U-turn getting ready for the return trip
Nineteen eighty-four Contemporary prophecies have just passed
Again, I've seen you from as far away as ancient times.
The shadow of the broom you dragged is pitiful
How many more threats can the terrified human race endure
How can we blame the earthly disasters on the heavenly ones
You're really a broom, so let's swing it
To sweep away the bad omen from our hearts
You're the one that's been alone, you're the one that's been alone. How many times have you passed in seventy-six years
What is the wrath of heaven that is banishing you
To the cold borders of Pluto
Looking back at the sun, a sickly firefly
Unwilling to be a prisoner of the black prison
You have always come out of the woodwork to the sun
To the fire to worship in a parade
You are always running in the tragedy of the cycle of reincarnation
You are always running in the tragedy of the cycle of reincarnation
That is why we are here. Tragedy
The long flag of pilgrimage all the way
Let me raise my lens to you too
Billions of lenses are raised to you tonight
The short six-inch lens has at one end
a long, endless sky and at the other end
a hurrying and sentient earth. 12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement
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5 Yu Guangzhong Poetry Collection
How many people at this end can Waiting for you
The next reincarnation comes back
At least I can no longer My gray hair
How can it compare with yours even if it's 3,000 feet long
The next time you pass by, I won't be there on earth anymore
But my country is still the five mountains going up
All the rivers are still rolling eastward
The national will will always go forward
Toward the steaming sun and the sun, I'm always going to be here
All the people will always go forward
And the people will never be here. >Toward the steaming sun Like you
When I die
When I die, bury me, between the Yangtze and the Yellow
Pillow my head, white hair over black soil.
In China, the most beautiful and motherly country,
I will sleep openly, sleep the whole continent,
Listening to the two sides, the requiem rises from the Yangtze River, the Yellow River
Two tubes of everlasting music, heaving, toward the east.
This is the most indulgent and the widest of beds,
Let a heart sleep contentedly, contentedly thinking,
Once upon a time, a young man in China used to look westward from frozen Michigan,
To see through the night to the dawn of China,
With seventeen years of unfederal China's eyes
To feast on maps from the West Lake to the Taihu Lake,
To see through the dark night to the dawn of China,
To feast on the map from the West Lake to the Taihu Lake. West Lake to Taihu Lake,
to Chongqing, where there are many partridges, instead of returning home.
Wuling Junior
The typhoon season is crowded with aquatics in the Bus Gap
There's a tributary of the Yellow River in my water system
The Yellow River is so cold it needs to be mixed with a lot of alcohol
Floating at the bottom of the glass is my family tree
Hey! Another cup of sorghum!
Flint in my anger, Dayu in my tears
The drums of Zhuo Lu in my ears
Legend has it that Grandfather shot down nine suns
There was an uncle whose name could scare off Shan Yu
Hear that? A bottle of sorghum!
A thousand gold furs hang in the window of the auction house
When the five-flower horse is gone, all that's left is arthritis
No more weekends waiting for me in Ximending
So there's a nest of kung fu novels hatching under the pillow
Here's a bottle of sorghum, shopkeeper!
Serious winds can cause heroes to hallucinate
When the cough progresses from frogs to wolves
Ribs rattling the iron grates of the asylum
A tornado is plucked from the lungs
It's okay, I'll have at least three more!
The ghost of the last bus is haunting
Raincoat! Where's my raincoat? Six seats on the
Tatami mats, insomnia is waiting for me
Waiting for me to break through six unlit streets
Don't help me, I'm not drunk!
Connected
- imitating Bian Zhilin's poetry
You stand at the bridge and watch the sun set
The sun sets, but you look back
Reviewing the far building
Someone is reading about you at the top of the building
You stand at the bridge and look at the bright moon
The bright moon looks down
But the bright moon looks down
The bright moon is looking down
We are standing at the bridge and watching the bright moon.
looking down at the far window
someone at the window is dreaming of you
sunflowers
the gavel is on Christie's hall
going
going
gone
bang, bang, knock down
thirty-nine million dollars for the high price
buy out Bought out, the nervous breaths of the room
Bought out, the envious eyes of the world
Bought out, broken, an ear
Bought out, scorched, a head of ruddy hair
Bought out, loosened, a mouthful of bad teeth
Bought out, in haste, thirty-seven years old
Mallet raised, to the enthusiastic room
Pistol raised. Against the lonely heart
Broken ears, going
Bare hair, going
Bad teeth, going
Nightmares, going
Seizures, going
Journals and letters, going
Doctors and beds, going
Dear brother. Ah, going
Bang, gone
A generous heart
And into a field full of sunflowers and a sky full of sun
Afterword: On March 30, 1968, the 97th anniversary of Van Gogh's birth
A sunflower of his was sold at Christie's auction house in London
The record-breaking high price was Going, going, gone was the cry at the end of the sale, the end of the sentence and the fall of the gavel
Silver-leaf panel marks
What old tree tells its story
that revealingly?
No need to search for the roots, all the legends
are laid bare
Half an acre of jagged dragon bones and jagged sinews
coiled into a siren that can't fly
Lighten up, shh, lighten up
in case he wakes up suddenly
A thousand wriggling fools, to toss you down
Begonia tattooed.
I always forget that there's a small scar on the left side of my chest
Why is it there? Was it picked by a knife, or a sword
Cut by a sword, or kissed by someone's gentle lips
Not gentle enough to stop a curse?
Until his old age
The day his heart ached
From his naked body in the mirror he found
The scar, the scar that had grown
Whose handprints were on his chest
A bloody crab, a tattoo of a begonia
The twisted and distorted shape he stared at
What was the begonia
The trauma or the internal wound
The trauma of the begonia
The trauma or the internal wound
Whatever it was. whether it's a trauma or an internal injury
I can't tell anymore
Ask the candle
Occasionally, in the night of a blackout
a white candle has the heart to accompany me
to explore the long lost world
Look at the way it leads the way
and the light that cares for me
It is so familiar and relatable
It is not surprising to see that a white candle can be used as a guide for the world.
It makes you wonder if it is the same one that accompanied me to the edge of my dreams
before turning into smoke
Each candle has a story
Told to the fire with the heart of the candle
Is it really the one on the table
that I saw forty years ago?
Is it really the one, Candle, I ask you
A gust of wind passes by and you gently shake your head
With or without meaning to say no
With or without meaning to say yes
Even if you are really the one from the past
It is in the blink of an eye that I recognize
Author: 220.249.37.* 2005- 12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement
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6 Yu Guangzhong's Poetry Collection
How can one expect, in the shifting light
How can you expect that in the shifting light
you will also recognize that this is me
recognize that, ahem, this strange white-haired
is the young man of the day with the ragged hair?
To the lamp
The old age is worth living for, no matter how lonely
The late nights when one must be awake, like tonight
When the sound of the waves gently shakes the restless world
into a dream: the ships in the harbor
The streets down the hill, the wives in the bedrooms
The snores on the desk answering to the winds on the water
It is fortunate that there is still this lamp left. But fortunately I still have this light
to accompany me in savoring the long empty nights
No matter how much anger and sadness is underneath this gray hair
this right hand that won't let go, when everything
can't be grasped any more, especially the years
wanting to take advantage of the fact that the muscles are not dulled and the blood is not yet cold
to ask for a significance of the destiny of the world
and the meaning of my coming. And you, the lamp, are always close by, always looking out for me, always favoring the warmth of a three-foot pulse, and all the secrets that I have to tell the world, no matter how light the brush strokes, you'll consider them important whispers that won't be drowned out by snoring, the wind, and the promise that when I'm asleep at the end of the day you'll still be there to light up the world. Here, just to
Stay out of dreams, to carry my words
To those who must be awake
In the midwinter moon
Mercury's moonlight drenches my bed
Sent by my childhood to find me?
For something lost?
I can't remember how
Only in the ambiguous vision, there is a piece of arm
Is it mine, sunk under the water
A piece of monument to be proved
Precious as the clear light is, if I were to be soundly aged
Wouldn't it be a sin to let down the Cindy, and a sin of elegance?
Surprisingly, I rolled over in the direction of the outside
and collided with the full moon
The hidden loss that I couldn't even avoid
had broken a few things at once?
What's even more amazing is that the moonlight
passed through me without leaving a shadow
I heard my childhood calling me from outside
The trees were silhouetted, and I pushed the window to answer
A gust of wind lifted me up
and floated me toward the ghostly moon in the mirror
and blew all the way through
Yangtze River Boatman's Song
This is a song by a boatman from the Yangzi River.
--Recited in Sichuan tone
I sang on the bank of the Yangzi River,
Songs resounded on both sides of the bank.
I look up to the east,
How majestic is the rising sun!
Heyo, heyo,
How majestic is the rising sun!
Pull a white sail when the wind is blowing,
and fill it to the brim;
Pull a chain when the water is coming up,
and carry the boat to the sky!
Hi yo, hi yo,
Bring the boat on your back!
The smiling waters are like a cradle,
The waters and the wind are a mother's hand.
The crazy waves are a pack of beasts,
Take the boat and carry it away!
Heyo, heyo,
Take the boat and pack it up and go!
All my life I have wandered on the water,
My home is wide:
Breakfast was eaten in Syufu,
Dinner will be told in Baxian!
Hi yo, hi yo,
Tell it again at Baxian for dinner!
I sing on the bank of the Yangzi River,
and the song is heard on both sides of the bank.
I look up to the east,
How majestic is the rising sun!
Heyo, heyo,
How majestic is the rising sun!
The blind fortune-teller
His desolate huqin stretches out the afternoon,
Not a patron is to be found in the side streets;
He holds his huqin again and complains to the dusk:
An empty day's journey earns him nothing but loneliness!
He could tell the fate of others clearly,
his own destiny was a tug of war:
A girl accompanied him through his years of disability,
a cane tasted the bumps and bruises of his life!
The next appointment
--At parting, I re-sent my words, and in them was an oath
When I die, your name, like the last flower
flows from my lips. Your fingers
are a string of keys, luscious
held in my hands, let me open
let me open wide, which door?
It's lucky to die holding your hand
Listen to you, you still love me, listen to you
There's still a phoenix after the phoenix dies
There's still a spring after the spring dies, but at least
there's a May that used to belong to us
Every gray hair still trembles for you, and every dash of suavity
remembers the olden days, remembers
The place where you stepped on a few red lilies bloomed
The place where you stood sprayed a daffodil
You stood in the wind, and your skirt fluttered, and your hair fluttered
Covering your ears in my chest
Listen to my heart, it's tired, it's tired
It is overdue for ZhenZhen ah ZhenZhen
It beats too strongly, it beats too often
It beats too often
It beats too strong, it beats too often
It beats too strong, it beats too often
Love puts too heavy a load on it, loveLove is here at one end and primitive at the other
. Last date in the blue field
And then last time, on the shores of the Luo water
In the flood, in the sea, in the nebulae of the Reins
In the memory, ah, beyond the memory, the other end of the love
Where is the next date, where is the next date?
What do you say, what do you say, I'll follow you
(Can you believe in reincarnation, can you believe?)
Death's black sleeves block, I can't see clearly, but
Well, I hear you, I'll be there